Another
colour drained from the world the way ink bleeds from a drowned passport,
leaving her the last pure syllable on a page everyone else abandoned.
She stands where the spectrum committed suicide,
head shaved to the bone by a razor that apologised in seventeen languages
and still cut too deep.
The skull beneath is a moon abandoned mid-orbit,
reflecting nothing,
absorbing everything,
a white so absolute it makes snow look filthy by comparison.
Her skin is the colour of a confession whispered into a dead microphone,
the colour of a hospital gown at the exact second the heart monitor flats.
Not pallor,
not absence,
but the colour that remains when every other colour
has been recalled by the manufacturer
for being too honest.
Touch it and your fingers will forget the temperature of living flesh
for the rest of the winter.
Eyes: two bullet holes
through which the night peers back at itself
and flinches.
They are the colour of oil slicks on holy water,
the colour of bruises that never quite heal
because the fist keeps returning
in different disguises.
Look once and you see your own reflection
begging to be let out.
Look twice and the reflection
is gone
and you’re not sure
who was imprisoned.
The mouth,
that mouth is the colour of a stop sign
in a city that never learned obedience.
A red so loud it has its own echo,
a red that remembers being blood
before it was warned
to behave like lipstick.
It parts just enough
to let a single word escape,
a word in a language
that predates mercy
and postdates forgiveness.
You will hear it
in your sleep
for the next seven lifetimes
and still not know
how to pronounce
your own surrender.
Her shirt is woven from the colour of cancelled appointments,
white squares knotted into cages
small enough to trap hope
but large enough
for despair to stretch.
Each diamond a room
where childhood was told
to wait its turn
and never called.
The collar rises
like the final question
in an exam
no one studied for
but everyone
is still expected
to pass.
Neck the colour of a tightrope
walked by someone
who was never given
a safety net
or even the illusion
of balance.
A single vein
pulses there
blue as the last unread message
in a chat
that ended
with “k.”
Behind her the wall forgets its own colour,
peeling into shades
no paint chart
ever dared name.
Cracks spread
like rumours
in a village
that ran out of truth
centuries ago.
A moth the colour of regret
beats itself against the plaster
trying to become
the light
it was promised
in another life.
The bulb overhead
has no colour left
to give.
It hangs
like a verdict
still deciding
whether to fall
or to burn.
She stands at the centre
of this colourless confession.
Her shadow
is the only thing
still brave enough
to stay black.
It clings to her feet
like a dog
that knows
its owner
is about to leave
forever.
When she inhales
the room loses
every remaining hue
and gains
one shade
of inevitable.
When she exhales
the dust rearranges itself
into the colour
of every name
she was never allowed
to answer to.
She is the girl
the rainbow was warned about
in kindergarten
but the rainbow
never learned
how to share.
She is the reason
mirrors
file for divorce
from their own reflections.
She is the reason
priests
paint the crucifix
a safer colour
after she walks past
the church
at dusk.
She is the moment
after the last drop of paint
falls from the brush
and the canvas
realises
it was always
supposed to stay
blank.
She is the colour white
learning how to scream
without opening
its mouth.
And the red on her lips
is not a colour.
It is the signature
at the bottom
of every apology
the world
still owes her
and refuses
to pay.
She has worn
every colour
they tried to cancel her with
and answered
by becoming
the only colour
they cannot
name
without
stuttering.
This is not a photograph.
This is the instant
before colour
remembers
it was never
the point.
And she
remains
perfectly
colourless
perfectly
complete
perfectly
still.
Still
here.
Still
colour or colour,
the verdict
was always
hers.
colour drained from the world the way ink bleeds from a drowned passport,
leaving her the last pure syllable on a page everyone else abandoned.
She stands where the spectrum committed suicide,
head shaved to the bone by a razor that apologised in seventeen languages
and still cut too deep.
The skull beneath is a moon abandoned mid-orbit,
reflecting nothing,
absorbing everything,
a white so absolute it makes snow look filthy by comparison.
Her skin is the colour of a confession whispered into a dead microphone,
the colour of a hospital gown at the exact second the heart monitor flats.
Not pallor,
not absence,
but the colour that remains when every other colour
has been recalled by the manufacturer
for being too honest.
Touch it and your fingers will forget the temperature of living flesh
for the rest of the winter.
Eyes: two bullet holes
through which the night peers back at itself
and flinches.
They are the colour of oil slicks on holy water,
the colour of bruises that never quite heal
because the fist keeps returning
in different disguises.
Look once and you see your own reflection
begging to be let out.
Look twice and the reflection
is gone
and you’re not sure
who was imprisoned.
The mouth,
that mouth is the colour of a stop sign
in a city that never learned obedience.
A red so loud it has its own echo,
a red that remembers being blood
before it was warned
to behave like lipstick.
It parts just enough
to let a single word escape,
a word in a language
that predates mercy
and postdates forgiveness.
You will hear it
in your sleep
for the next seven lifetimes
and still not know
how to pronounce
your own surrender.
Her shirt is woven from the colour of cancelled appointments,
white squares knotted into cages
small enough to trap hope
but large enough
for despair to stretch.
Each diamond a room
where childhood was told
to wait its turn
and never called.
The collar rises
like the final question
in an exam
no one studied for
but everyone
is still expected
to pass.
Neck the colour of a tightrope
walked by someone
who was never given
a safety net
or even the illusion
of balance.
A single vein
pulses there
blue as the last unread message
in a chat
that ended
with “k.”
Behind her the wall forgets its own colour,
peeling into shades
no paint chart
ever dared name.
Cracks spread
like rumours
in a village
that ran out of truth
centuries ago.
A moth the colour of regret
beats itself against the plaster
trying to become
the light
it was promised
in another life.
The bulb overhead
has no colour left
to give.
It hangs
like a verdict
still deciding
whether to fall
or to burn.
She stands at the centre
of this colourless confession.
Her shadow
is the only thing
still brave enough
to stay black.
It clings to her feet
like a dog
that knows
its owner
is about to leave
forever.
When she inhales
the room loses
every remaining hue
and gains
one shade
of inevitable.
When she exhales
the dust rearranges itself
into the colour
of every name
she was never allowed
to answer to.
She is the girl
the rainbow was warned about
in kindergarten
but the rainbow
never learned
how to share.
She is the reason
mirrors
file for divorce
from their own reflections.
She is the reason
priests
paint the crucifix
a safer colour
after she walks past
the church
at dusk.
She is the moment
after the last drop of paint
falls from the brush
and the canvas
realises
it was always
supposed to stay
blank.
She is the colour white
learning how to scream
without opening
its mouth.
And the red on her lips
is not a colour.
It is the signature
at the bottom
of every apology
the world
still owes her
and refuses
to pay.
She has worn
every colour
they tried to cancel her with
and answered
by becoming
the only colour
they cannot
name
without
stuttering.
This is not a photograph.
This is the instant
before colour
remembers
it was never
the point.
And she
remains
perfectly
colourless
perfectly
complete
perfectly
still.
Still
here.
Still
colour or colour,
the verdict
was always
hers.
The Sunday Circle